The room eventually came into focus. A twisted sheet hanging off the edge of the bed just past his fingertips. A full glass of water, untouched, on the bedside table. Hudson in an armchair, head in his hands. Don Juan didn't want to be lucid yet — he wanted to be asleep and numb, or back under, or even just still incoherent. His body was still shaking, his insides still hurt — he wasn't ready to face anything yet. Hudson was already here; Hudson was still here. Don Juan wished that he had left at some point — gone and sat in his study and fumed, or washed his hands of this and left until Don Juan was sober enough that he could kick him out, or gone to the guest room and slept. It didn't matter where or why; he just wished that Hudson hadn't been sitting here, seeing this, for however long he had been. It was a silly thing to think, of course. He knew there was no chance Hudson would have left him in this state, however much he hated it, however hard it was to watch.

He wanted to be asleep, but he wasn't, and eventually he had to stop pretending. He didn't think he was up for saying anything yet — physically he could have managed it just fine, but emotionally he had no idea where to start — so instead he reached out a hand and touched Hudson's knee and willed him to hear what he hadn't said: I'm sorry.

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